


The Spot of Art

by sc010f



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, John needed money. Once upon a time, John posed nude for a figure artist. Once upon a time, Mycroft bought a painting at auction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spot of Art

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Сила искусства](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4061269) by [Oruga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oruga/pseuds/Oruga)



John Watson has an uneasy relationship with technology that exists outside the surgery. He can suture like a pro (because, really, he is one), he can operate a remote control implantation device, and he can read and understand x-rays, MRIs and CT scans as if it were his business (which it was, and still, occasionally is).

His favorite toy, of course, is the extractor – the one he uses to remove foreign objects from various uncomfortable places, mostly because it wins him quite a number of bets with Lestrade. (The flash drive up Sherlock's nose was a particular treat.)

But when it comes to the technology that we use every day – chip and PIN machines, the card reader on the Underground, mobile phones, laptops, remote controlled bomb vests, and even on one memorable occasion, an automatic sliding door, John H Watson, MD, late of the RAMC, has what can be best described as an adversarial relationship.

And it is on such an occasion that we meet John, having an argument with the cash point at his bank.

He knew that he wasn't over the limit on his overdraft. He knew, in fact, that he wasn't even close to his overdraft. He knew it because he had, not seventy-two hours earlier, deposited his latest paycheck from the surgery into his account, bringing the numbers nicely back into black. But lo and behold, the cash point was telling him a completely different story. It had also, apparently, eaten his card.

The little old lady behind him was making noises that, to John's not inexperienced ear, sounded rather threatening regarding John's insistence on monopolizing the machine.

"Fine!" John threw his hands up in the air after punching the "cancel transaction" button several times in succession, to no avail. "If you, madam, can make this work, then…"

"Oh dear," said the little old lady (who could easily have been Mrs Hudson's sister, right down to the violently purple dress). "Are you having trouble? I know what you mean, dear, my Onslow used to have such a bother with these things. Here, let me have a look."

And she shouldered John aside and began manipulating the keypad as if she'd been born to do it.

John began to stutter some form of thanks, horribly embarrassed to be technologically outclassed by a sweet lady old enough to be his Nan (who, come to think of it, was a wizard with the computer and had her own online bridge group) when the sweet old lady looked up sharply and said, "Oh! Oh, my!"

"Are you all right?" John asked, suddenly concerned. The lady had gone white and then bright pink.

"Oh, my dear, yes… I'm so sorry I didn't recognize you – it's been so long, I suppose, and we all age, don't we?"

"I'm sorry, you must have me…"

"Oh, no, dear, I don't. I'm sure I don't. You're John, aren’t you?"

"Well, yes, but…"

"I'm sorry, dear, such a tragic loss, really for us all, but how lovely that his work can go to such a wonderful charity."

"Charity?" John parroted back the word. Clearly, the sweet old lady was completely off her head.

"Yes, the auction. Tomorrow. At Sotheby's. Goodness knows, I'd love to bid for you, but it's a bit outside my range, I'm afraid. Even a print goes for thousands of pounds. A poster's the best I can do, and even those are tricky to find – I managed once, dear, to see you in person at Tate Modern, when they had the retrospective, five years ago. Such a lovely work, it is, too. He really captured your vulnerability. Tell me, do you still have the," she coughed discreetly, "tattoo?"

The penny dropped. John blushed a deep, deep red.

She was talking about The Painting.

It didn't happen that often. Jeremy Thetford had been a fairly private man, almost to the point of being a recluse, but his work was sought after, and he was, for all that John could tell, quite talented. He'd seen the headlines, of course; how Thetford had died in a tragic plane crash, how it was such a great loss to the artistic community, and how his works were being, pursuant to his will, auctioned off by Sotheby's for charity, and the proceeds from his estate donated to a foundation for AIDS research, but in truth, John had almost forgotten.

Forgotten that, at the age of nineteen, desperate for money, he'd posed nude for Thetford for what then had seemed a small fortune, but had really been about a hundred pounds. It had, however, paid his rent and launched Thetford into the spotlight as the artist of his generation.

The lady was still fluttering, and John smiled the special smile he used for sweet little old ladies and suspicious children.

"As a matter of fact, madam," he said, leaning down to whisper in her ear, "I still do."

The lady turned an even brighter pink and giggled.

"Do you think," she asked. "Do you think I could have your autograph?"

"You…"

"Oh, yes, you see, it will so impress my sister Hyacinth. She's always going on and on about art, and collecting it, but really she knows absolutely nothing. And it would mean so much to me…"

She rooted around in her handbag and came up with a Sharpie.

"Please?" she said.

John laughed and took the proffered marker.

"Erm, do you have a…" he asked, casting about for a piece of paper.

"Oh, well, erm, how about here?"

The lady hitched up her skirt and rolled down part of her knee-high stocking.

"Just make it out to Violet, would you, dear?" she asked.

* * *

The cash point having won the day, John continued his errands and in so doing, plucked a copy of a newspaper out of a handy recycling bin.

Splashed all over the front page was not only an article about Thetford's death and will, but also a somewhat grainy photograph of one of Thetford's masterworks: John H Watson, aged nineteen and naked. Or, as it is known more conventionally in the art world, _John in the Early Morning_. At least the photo had been strategically cropped, so as not to offend the eyes of the newsreading public.

* * *

Upon his return home, John noticed as he glanced into the sitting room to see Sherlock and Mycroft staring at each other, that the atmosphere at 221B wasn't particularly welcoming.

Being a wise man (one can have an adversarial relationship with technology and still be wise), he decided to avoid the fraternal squabble and head straight up to his room where he could… erm…

Bloody hell. His laptop was on the table behind Sherlock. As was his book. And of course the only television in the flat was in the sitting room.

He glanced toward the kitchen, and was calculating the odds of being able to make a cup of tea, throw out the remains of the roasted dormice, and escape up the stairs before either of the Holmeses noticed his presence when Sherlock called out, "You might as well come in, John. I can hear you thinking."

"I'm not getting involved…" John started to say, deciding that, since his cover had been blown (had he really had any cover?) a good offense was the best defense.

"You don't _have_ to get involved," Sherlock replied. "I am not, for one."

"All I'm asking is that you look at it," Mycroft said with exaggerated patience.

"I don't see why you should care."

"Because I've just spent obscene amount of money and I would like to get what I paid for."

"No."

"I've asked all the _real_ experts – the police; now I want your thoughts," Mycroft said.

Sherlock snorted. "Boring."

"Why…" John started to ask.

"Because it's been stolen," Sherlock interrupted.

"Painting?" John asked from the doorway. "Stolen?"

"Some daubing that the blob here bought," Sherlock said with a glare at his brother. "Apparently a Very Important Artist has died and his works were being sold at auction. Fatso here purchased one and it vanished immediately after the auction."

"Just go and look at the scene, Sherlock." Mycroft rose and handed a folder to John. "I _will_ of course pay you a small fee for your assistance. Something I think Dr Watson would appreciate? Given his current bank balance?"

"BORING!" shouted Sherlock again.

"How did you know…" John started to ask Mycroft and then thought better of it. "Oh, is _that_ why my PIN number wouldn't work…"

"Unfortunately, yes, John," Mycroft replied with a twinkle that was just this side of Satanic. "I'm working on it, but with your ASBO and your history of," he glanced at Sherlock, "erratic behavior, I'm having a certain amount of difficulty persuading Barclay's to keep your money in one place."

"And if we do this _little job_ ," Sherlock said, eyes still fixed upon the ceiling (John thought that it must be bad; Sherlock wasn't even fondling his violin),"You'll have a quiet word with the Barclay's people, and poof! John will have money again."

"Something like that, yes," Mycroft replied urbanely.

"Wait… you're holding my bank balance hostage so that your brother can retrieve your purchase of a piece of _art_?" John demanded, growing quite warm with indignation.

"Yes," Mycroft said. "Quite. Although it's a _bit_ more complicated than that."

"How? How is more complicated than that?" John asked.

"You'll see," Mycroft said, slipping around John and heading off down the stairs like some slithery government eel. "When you examine the painting. If you manage to find it."

The horrible suspicion that had begun to grow on John when he'd first heard Sherlock and Mycroft bandying about the words "auction" and "art" burst forth in all its pimply teenage glory and began to cackle.

John opened the folder.

And there he was. Not, as it were, in the flesh, but in a much better quality reproduction than the grainy printed photo in the paper of what had, umpteen number of years ago, helped him pay the rent. And this particular photograph was of the entire painting.

"Why did Mycroft want to buy it?" John asked Sherlock. Somehow, the idea that _Mycroft_ was interested in purchasing a painting of John and his bits, illuminated by the gentle sunrise shining in the windows of Thetford's flat as they reclined lazily against his rumpled white sheets and pillows, smoke from a cigarette curling about the room as if the two men had spent the night in the throes of passion, was horrifying.

"I have no idea," Sherlock said to the ceiling. "And I really don't care."

At which point, Mrs Hudson hurried up the stairs with the evening papers.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said. "I just saw your brother. Are you really going to be finding that lovely picture of Dr Watson for him?"

John watched as Sherlock turned his gaze to her.

"What picture of Dr Watson?" he asked, sitting up suddenly.

* * *

That evening, John found himself with Lestrade, Sherlock, Anderson, and Donovan, staring not at The Painting, but instead at the gaping hole in a very modern, very understated, yet highly appropriate frame that The Painting had once inhabited.

The manager of the auction, a plump, fluttery, excitable man, who introduced himself as Hildebrand and spent an awkwardly long time shaking John's hand, was sitting in the corner, alternately fanning himself with a folder and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "Oh, my ears and whiskers."

It was, he reflected, disturbing.

It shouldn't have been, of course; he hadn't seen the damned thing for almost twenty years, and at the time, it had just been a job. Something to cover his expenses. But somehow, the idea that it had been, in the hours that he'd started thinking about it again, stolen, shook him.

"Now, this!" said Sherlock. "This is really interesting. Of course it's being done because _somebody_ wants to raise its price. The interesting part is when it will be returned, of course. And who has it. Which all of you could see, if you weren't so dense."

"Yeah, interesting. Great." Lestrade glared at him. "Suppose you tell me how you managed to show up here, _just_ as I was?"

"Not that it's any of your concern, I assure you, Lestrade," Sherlock said smugly. "The coincidence of the work being stolen _just_ as I was coming to evaluate it is, I am _sure_ , just that."

"Oh, God. You _are_ connected to it," Lestrade groaned. "Gimme."

"Mycroft."

"Your brother?"

"Brilliantly observed. Yes, my brother. He purchased it. And he wants it back."

"Was it good?" Lestrade asked.

"No idea," Sherlock said with a grin and leaped to the empty frame, brandishing his magnifying glass.

"What was it even _of_?" Anderson asked.

John felt himself blushing again.

"Ask John," Sherlock said. "Oh, of _course_!"

"Why…" Lestrade turned to John.

Oh, God.

"Well, erm…" John started. "Oh, fuck it. Here." There was no point in hiding it; they'd all find out eventually, he supposed.

Having examined the photo in the cab, he remembered more and more about the experience:

Jeremy's flat-cum-studio, the man's wild black hair, his strange way of striding about the place when he was thinking or frustrated, the way John had to hold his body _just so_ for what felt like hours over the course of that month, the smell of cigarettes and unwashed sheets (they'd become incredibly manky by the end of it), Jeremy's makeshift bed on the floor where he'd slept – not wanting to disturb the pattern of rumpling that John had made when they'd first begun, how John had been painfully conscious of every flaw, every imperfection when Jeremy was leaning over him with the Polaroid, and staring at him as he lay, attention fixed on the window. He remembered Jeremy's scrutiny, dark-eyed and intense, as he examined every inch of John's body, making minute adjustments, complaining when John breathed too heavily, or shifted too much. It wasn't, John reflected, easy money by any stretch of the imagination, but by the end of it, when Jeremy had finally called him and told him it was done, John had felt like he'd been a part of something… special. Jeremy's joy, his almost-satisfaction, had been contagious.

And now, as he passed the folder to Lestrade, John found himself holding his breath. Waiting for the laughter.

Instead, Donovan gave a low whistle, and Lestrade's eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"Is that…" Donovan started to ask.

"Yes, it's done from life," Sherlock said, coming up to them. "John wouldn't be that shade of red if it wasn't."

"Blimey."

"Yes, all right!" John snapped, snatching the folder away. "Are you quite finished?" Deep within, though, he felt a flicker of pride.

What he hadn't bargained on was Sherlock's sudden silence. Surely, Sherlock would have seen the work before now? Glancing up, John watched as Sherlock imitated the nice old lady at the bank from the morning.

Sherlock had grown quite pale and then quite pink. Oh, apparently he _hadn't_ seen the work before.

John had experienced a veritable lifetime of awkward silences. And yet this one, in the storage vault at Sotheby's with Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, Sherlock and Hildebrand, was probably the awkwardest of awkward silences John had _ever_ experienced.

"Blimey," Donovan remarked again.

"Indeed," observed Lestrade.

* * *

Sherlock was preternaturally silent in the cab ride home.

Sherlock was preternaturally silent as they watched television.

Sherlock was preternaturally silent as they had breakfast the next morning.

When Mycroft came by to inquire about the theft and Sherlock's progress, John was left to make all of the conversation. Sherlock lay on the sofa, nearly comatose, covered in nicotine patches, staring at the ceiling. A casual observer, not being John (who checked his pulse on a regular basis) would have taken him for dead.

He didn't look at John except when John stood directly beside him on the couch, and then all he seemed to do was stare at John's crotch.

Until finally, as evening began to fall, Sherlock said,

"Why would Mycroft want to buy _you_?"

"What?" John asked, startled.

"You. Your painting," Sherlock replied with a contemptuous snort.

"What?"

"No, who. You."

"Sherlock…"

"It's obvious, John. He wants to horn in on my racket. He wants you. And he can't have you. Nobody can, at this point. At least not until Hildebrand decides to give it up."

John stared at him. Sherlock lay on the sofa, the harsh lamplight shining around him, a halo.

"You know he took it."

"Yes. He wants to bring the price up. Or he wants it for himself, one of the two. Can't imagine why."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

Sherlock cracked open an eye and cocked an eyebrow.

"What?"

John sighed. It was just, he reminded himself, typical Sherlock behavior. It didn't mean that John should take it personally. Just because _he_ was the subject of the painting.

Of course.

Because it was about him. Or not. John honestly didn't know anymore.

John turned away.

From somewhere, deep within the flat, a phone chirped.

"Finally!" Sherlock exclaimed, fiddling with it. "Look, John! Lestrade's finally come to his senses. We're going to…"

John looked up.

"What?"

"Oh… oh, that's…" Sherlock glanced at him.

"Sherlock, _what_?"

"We have to go, John. Now."

"What? Where? At least put some clothes on!"

Sherlock glanced down at his pyjamas.

"No time. Grab your gun."

"Where are we going?"

He knew better, he really did, haring after Sherlock half-cocked like that, but John did as he was told, at least managing to grab his and Sherlock's coats on the way down the stairs. Sherlock flapped into the street, hailed a taxi, and John hurtled in beside him.

"At least put this on," he said, bundling an impatient Sherlock into his overcoat. "Where are we going?"

"Yes, where?" The cabbie asked.

"Oh, yes. Pimlico, please."

The cabbie grunted and pulled out into traffic.

"And _hurry_!" Sherlock shouted at him. "A life is at stake. And a great deal of money, too."

The cabbie grunted again and deliberately slowed down.

"Sherlock… tell me, please, what the _hell_ is going on?" John said as the cab crawled south.

"He's good, John, he's very good.”

"Sherlock, I'm very nearly the end of my tether. In plain English, please. What is going on?"

"Look." Sherlock shoved the phone at him.

"Oh. Oh, God." John stared in horror at the picture.

"Yes, exactly. Driver, DRIVE, dammit!" Sherlock shouted.

John dug in his wallet, praying for cash.

"Oh, never _mind_ ," Sherlock snapped, sitting up and digging in the pocket of his robe. "Here." He shoved a wad of notes at the driver. John was sure he saw a fifty in there.

Whatever he'd given him seemed to pacify the cabbie, who stomped on the accelerator with such force that both John and Sherlock were thrown back onto the seat.

Sherlock ended up sprawled across John's lap, his hand on John's crotch, splayed, presumably, to break his fall.

Oh, hello.

Sherlock grasped at John, kneading his hand.

John gasped.

It wasn't that he wanted Sherlock to be touching his rapidly hardening cock. It was just that _somebody_ was touching it. Somebody other than him.

The fact that it was a) a man, and b) Sherlock somehow didn't seem… important.

"Oi!" Exclaimed the driver. "This ain't that kind of cab!"

John came to his senses and shoved Sherlock off of him as they raced through the streets of London.

Sherlock, having righted himself, held up John's phone.

"How did you…?"

"Misdirection, John. You were so worried about me groping you, you failed to notice my taking your phone. I need to text Lestrade."

"You… is that how you pickpocket Lestrade, too?"

"No. I tried it once, and he punched me. So I have to be more subtle with him. About the only thing I can be subtle about with him."

"Oh, God."

"Not exactly. Oh, good, you haven't deleted Mycroft's number."

"What…"

"Keep up, John. Driver! Take the shortcut! Turn right, left, left, and then right again."

"Whatever you want," the driver said, executing a highly illegal right turn through traffic, throwing John and Sherlock against each other again.

John wished the cabbie would stop doing that, especially as Sherlock's hand was now experimentally gripping John's hip.

"Sherlock, why…"

"Pimlico, John. It's the home of the auction manager.

Sherlock kneaded John's hip, drawing him closer. John could smell the peculiar mix of stale tea, lab chemicals and deodorant that was _Sherlock_ and feel his hot breath on his cheek.

"It was the auction manager who arranged for the theft, right? Now he's sending us a photo to make it look like he's been kidnapped along with the painting. He's wrong of course, and Mycroft's going to call in a raid. Isn't it _exciting_?" Sherlock whispered in John's ear. "My brother gets so worked up over little things. But rather unusually, this isn't 'little' at all, is it?"

John squirmed away. Heat suffused his face, and he really _really_ hoped that Sherlock, for all his groping in the last few minutes, had not noticed his growing erection. A highly inappropriate erection, too, given the circumstances – hurtling through London to catch a madman _with_ a madman.

Sherlock probably had felt his erection, damn it. It really was bloody unfair. Being flat mates with the man who noticed _everything_ and then proceeded to take advantage of the situation.

Something in John's brain stutter-stepped, tripping over the facts of what had just happened.

The rational part of John's brain informed him in no uncertain terms that he was being ridiculous.

The cab screeched to a halt outside of a very posh looking pied a terre.

"We’re here."

* * *

It turned out that Sherlock not only kept wads of fifty pound notes in his dressing gown pocket, he also kept a complete set of lock picks.

"How?" John asked as Sherlock bent over the lock, torch in his mouth.

"Alwath be preparthed," Sherlock said around the torch.

"You were never a scout," John muttered as the door popped open and an alarm beeped.

"As a matter of fact, it was Mycroft's idea," Sherlock said, fingers flying over the keypad. "He said it would 'socialize' me.

"You must have been…"

"They banned me after the incident with the rabbit and the garden hose," Sherlock said as the alarm keypad blipped again, a cheerful welcome.

"The rabbit…"

"Was fine. The garden hose and the python, however…"

John swallowed.

"Come on – it should be up here… oh."

At the top of the stairs, in what was a very posh study – or a snug if one wanted to be truly Dickensian – Hildebrand was sitting, just below The Painting – set up so as to catch the spotlight shining on the wall that seemed _just_ designed for it.

"Oh, gentlemen, it seems you are too late," Hildebrand purred. "But now that you're here, what do you think of my little gallery?"

"Oh, shut _up_ ," Sherlock said. "Which was it, Hildebrand? The chance to score off my brother, the money, or John?"

"Well, as much as I'm flattered to be associated with such an august figure as Dr Watson, I'm afraid all three of those are wrong. You see, Sherlock, it's _you_."

"Oh, right. Another _fan_?"

"Something like that."

"Been there, done that. John? Gun, please."

"Erm… well, Sherlock…"

John's voice was a bit strangly due mostly to the fact that a Minion had him by the throat.

Sherlock sighed, his shoulders slumped.

"Really, John? _Again_?"

"Oh, what a picture! You see, Mr Holmes, I've had the privelege of being bankrolled by James Moriarty for years. And now that you've managed to blow him up… I'm afraid I can't help myself, and my romantic nature – I will have vengeance. And a wad of cash to go with it." Hildebrand was practically giggling. "Of course I will be taking pictures of the whole occasion.

The second flash of the camera was the point when everything went to hell.

At least for Hildebrand and company. As far as John could piece together, these were the facts of the matter:

Fact the first: a canister crashed through the window and began to smoke.

Fact the second: the smoke bomb went off and the glowing red fireflies of laser targeting systems filled the snug.

Fact the third: the minion holding John suddenly let go of him and fell to the floor. John tumbled forward, tackling Hildebrand as he did so. The camera fell with a clatter and Hildebrand shrieked like a little girl.

Fact the fourth: somebody (probably a Minion) began firing into the smoke and Sherlock dove forward.

Fact the fifth: Mycroft's voice shot out of the darkness and confusion:

"Don't harm the painting! Whatever you do, don't harm the painting!"

Fact the sixth: Sherlock, tussling with the Minion on the floor, rolled them into John.

Fact the seventh: the Minion dropped the gun and John, ever quick-witted, grabbed it.

Fact the eighth: A shadowy figure crept up behind Hildebrand and slipped their bonds, just as the Minion rolled away from Sherlock and into Hildebrand's feet.

As the smoke cleared, John saw the shadowy figure of Mycroft Holmes, lit by the yellow light from the streetlamp behind him, but transformed. Mycroft Holmes. Nemesis.

He hefted a bust of Pallas (a rather pallid one, from what John could determine) over hid head and brought it down with a sickening "thunk" onto the unprotected skull of Archibald Hildebrand, gallery owner and theif.

* * *

What happened immediately after was rather an anticlimax.

Because really, government operatives storming the room with weapons drawn and Mycroft pausing dramatically with the pallid bust of Pallas to examine his work. Lestrade's arrival was greeted by a whimper from the slowly consciousness regaining Hildebrand, and a disdainful sniff from Sherlock.

Still, it was nice to have reinforcements. Especially reinforcements with handcuffs.

* * *

"So," Lestrade said, hours later, gesturing to the painting with his whisky glass. "That's really you?" He was comfortably sprawled on the floor of Mycroft's study, examining the painting that had been restored to its rightful owner.

"I'm afraid so," John admitted, shifting a bit so that the back of Sherlock's hard skull wasn't digging into the softer places on _his_ lap.

"G'wan," Lestrade said.

"Your accent's beginning to show a bit," Mycroft murmured from deep within his wingback chair. He slid to the floor and crawled (John could scarcely believe it, but the bastard actually _crawled_ efficiently) over to Lestrade, settling in beside him.

It was, doubtless, a testament to Sherlock's state of distraction that he was not commenting on the unusual arrangement on the floor before him.

"No, it really is me," John insisted. "I sat for hours. And believe me, it's boring as anything after a while."

"Artists usually _are_ attracted to unique figures," Mycroft admitted leaning against Lestrade's shoulder.

"Keep your eyes to yourself, fatty, he's _mine_ ," mumbled Sherlock from the confines of John's lap.

"Is that so?" asked John.

"It is," Sherlock insisted.

"News to me, then," John muttered and then grunted as Sherlock turned his head a bit, the angle perfect to cause a rather interesting reaction in John's nether regions.

Well, then.

"But, it wouldn't hurt, John," Sherlock said. "For you to provide us with visual confirmation."

"What?"

"Wha- he means is," Lestrade said, bending down to press his lips to Mycroft's cheek. "Is get your kit off so we can all see."

"Oooh, yes," gasped Mycroft.

"What is it with you people and me being naked?" John asked. "Can't we take it as read that that _is_ me?"

"I'm afraid not, John," Lestrade said. "We all desire visual confirmation, I believe."

"What… Oh, for Christ's sake. You people are unbelievable!"

"No, just curious," Mycroft pointed out. "We are all, after all, all are, are all, problem solvers of a sort. We like to have… mysteries cleared up."

"And to account for shrinkage do to aging," Lestrade said.

Mycroft dissolved into a fit of snorting giggles. It was profoundly creepy, John decided.

He dropped his head onto the back of the sofa and groaned.

"Thank you very much," he grumped. "Fine. You know what? I'll do it. You're obviously all seriously psychologically disturbed, but I'll do it. You've seen the result of me spending _hours_ on that manky bed in exactly the same position, bored out of my skull, fighting insane muscle cramps on canvas, you might as well see it in person!"

"Oh, goody!" exclaimed Sherlock.

"Yeah, only 'cos you can't really be _that_ … you know," Lestrade said.

"Want to wager on that?" Sherlock asked.

John shoved him off of the sofa and stood up.

"Stand next to the picture!" Sherlock ordered.

"Do you mind?"

"He's right, you know," said Mycroft from his position on the floor (now practically in Lestrade's lap). "We have to get an accurate comparison."

"Oh, for fuck's sake…"

"You said you would, John," Lestrade said in his best "I'm the police, resistance is futile" voice.

" _Fine_." John staggered (owing a bit to the massive amount of whisky he had consumed in the last ninety minutes) to stand beside the painting, sighed, and undid his belt and trousers, finding a spot on the wall above the heads of his insane colleagues, enemies, friends, whatever, flat mates, and colleagues to stare at as he dropped his pants.

The silence that followed, John had to admit, was at least admiring.

Until Sally and Anthea walked in, giggling (yes, even Anthea) and stopped short, staring at the tableau before them.

John met Anthea's eyes.

"Blimey," she said.

* * *

It was late.

Mycroft and Lestrade had (at Sherlock's insistence) wandered off to more private pastures. Although, from what John could tell, they hadn't got very far yet – maybe the stairs, judging from the thumps and giggles.

John smiled dreamily to himself, that smile that only comes with just enough whisky to satisfy, and pushed himself off the sofa in order to find a loo.

Fortunately for John and the pair on the stairs, there was a small bathroom attached to Mycroft's study.

Having relieved himself, John turned to the sink, washed his hands, and splashed water on his face when the door opened.

"Oh hello," he said to Sherlock. "I thought you were asleep."

Sherlock didn't answer him, but pressed against John, pinning him against the sink.

"No," Sherlock whispered in his ear. "Sleeping's boring."

"Well, there are some that would ah, ah, argue with that." John gasped as Sherlock's hand reached around, palming the front placket of John's trousers.

"Sleep is especially boring when I have a scientific study to pursue."

"Wha?" John asked intelligently as Sherlock spun him around and pressed into him, stifling the interrogative with a heated kiss, taking clear advantage of John's open mouth.

Any intelligent thought immediately fled John's brain.

As Sherlock broke the kiss to press his lips to John's neck, the intelligent thought stayed far, far away.

And when Sherlock knelt down to unzip John's trousers, take his swelling cock in his hand, to nuzzle him, lick him, and then take him into his mouth, the intelligent thought raced into John's brain to make sure the kettle was off and took off for Fiji.

Sherlock broke away for a moment and looked up at John.

"Just remember," Sherlock said, fixing him with a stare that sent shivers down his spine. "From now on, this is _mine_." And he took John back into his mouth again. John's head sagged back, his hand grasping Sherlock's hair.

It was bloody frightening and _weird_ and so fucking Sherlock, but John realized (much later, after intelligent thought had returned from its vacation) as they lay together on Mycroft's sofa, a tangle of sweaty and sticky and sated limbs, it really was perfect.

Warm, satisfied, and happily fucked, John fell asleep and woke only when Sherlock, obviously dreaming about his days as a Scout, elbowed him in the spleen and muttered something about "catching the python."

But by then, it was almost morning, and in the breaking dawn, John was content to lie on the sofa, underneath Sherlock and watch the sunlight stream into the study behind The Painting, remembering those mornings, almost a lifetime ago as he drifted back to sleep to the gentle sound of Sherlock's snores.

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money. AnnieTalbot, Bluestocking79, and PyjamaPants once again have my back with regards to commas, plot, fiddly details and the like. Taken from [This prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12432.html?thread=65551504) on the kinkmeme.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for The Spot of Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/816473) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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